Blackout
by katsa5
Summary: Rain in the desert changes a simple mission to a fight for survival. (Currently a Heavy and Medic story. However, there are plans in the future for expansion.)


Author's Notes: This short story was based on a video. It had an interpretive plot, and mine became too long for the Comment Section. Here's the link to the video: watch?v=e_O6e5EtJGQ&noredirect=1

In case link doesn't work, go on YouTube and search for 'Over and Over' by LadyShockBox. First attempt at Team Fortress (Pauling, Gray Mann, who knows what), so feel free to express any corrections. That's how one learns, after all.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, settings, anything Valve-related, and have no intention of making money off of this. Rated so for violence (It's Team Fortress, so of course!) and implied Heavy/Medic (Don't like; :) I understand, no hard feelings.)

**Blackout**

The day was gray. It started out as a normal, violent day at the Mann Company with a normal mission of Property Rights Security. But the afternoon brought something that made this day unique. It brought rain. Falling in a harmonious, refreshing drizzle, it seemed to renew the spirits of both sides as they ran into each fray over and over with endless zeal. Gone was the choking dust and intense heat, and remade old obstacles anew with easier tracking and more difficulty hiding.

As the day went on, the raindrops tore the sandy earth like the Heavy's own bullets tore flesh. Spontaneous mudslides ravaged the buildings and would slap the mercenaries against the ground, the walls, or each other. It was like the property they were defending was trying to kill them. Advantages and abilities were slowly falling away. Mud corrupted grease, oil, and circuits, leaving only melee consistently reliable. Running was more like slipping in place. What started as an intense war quickly dissolved into a bone-breaking, mud-wrestling brawl in the middle of a muddy ocean.

The Powers That Be must not have expected the weather either. The Respawn Network had grown unstable. Scattered console boxes were left unprotected in the rain. They snapped and popped as exposed wires desperately worked against exposure to the elements. Every once in a while, with a single snap, a console would break and protection would be halted. This made everyone nervous. On one hand, it was incredibly gratifying to kill your enemy once and for all. But unnerving that the enemy could just as easily end you. Consequences had to be considered. All that kept the Soldier from bouncing into the Air and dropping bazooka bombs with a loud 'Fuck yeah!' was that one well placed sniper bullet would keep him from ever feeling the ground again. Earlier, a blue engineer had climbed to one of the consoles and attempted to hammer a small canopy over it. But before he could hammer the second nail, a bullet to the head flung him from the roof. Luckily, the network restored him before falling silent. It was the Red Soldier that shot him, and the Red Sniper that punched him for it. Without working weapons and respawning that only worked sometimes, the mission for security became a primal, defensive stalemate. So here they stood, each side in one of the few buildings that stood strong, waiting for the other to brave the slides and move.

The Medic leaned against the wall, peering around the fragmented window frame, watching the rain fall. His black boots were caked with sandy mud. His white coat was splattered brown. He was watching at the ready with Kritzkrieg. The dirt-caked Heavy Weapons Specialist was sitting on the floor across from the Medic. With a greasy, gray rag and curses in muttered frustration, he gratingly scrubbed mud from inside the multiple gun barrels. A few well-aimed mud flings at the body were working their way to the gears. The Medic silently peered towards him. Even in this situation, the Medic liked watching him work. Big clumsy hands worked like nimble, strong Russian dancers upon the things he cares for. It gave the medic a subtle, familiar rush.

His eyes turned back outside at the sound of rapid fire feet outside; the familiar squish-splash-squish-splash-squish-splash of the Scout and he darted about outside like a human combination of search light and guard dog. His mud tracks on the outside hallway were still wet as he ran about inside as well. It was his cure for boredom. Already he broke his ankle twice running in the rain like that. If he breaks them a third time, the Medic will answer his calls for help with a boot to the face and charge for the prescription. So far, nothing yet. But it did inspire the Medic to develop steel ankle implants later. In time with the footsteps were the rhythmic hammering of the Engineer's wrench. The goggled man had been trying to develop his machines to withstand the rain and mud. So far, no avail. There was even the occasional snuff-snuff of Pyro's lighter. He was especially miserable in this weather.

Medic stood up straight, shaking off the drying dirt from his coat. Heavy exclaimed a loud bellow in frustration as he threw the rag to the ground in frustration. In quiet careful steps, the Medic went to his side. "What is it?"he whispered softly, so inaudible that it was as if reminding heavy the importance of silence.

Remembering, the Heavy whispered back, "I don't have what I need to fix Sasha."

"She doesn't seem broken."

"Not yet. But she'll be ruined if this keeps up."

"This won't be for much longer. You can fix her at the base."

With a heavy sigh, Heavy leaned back against the wall, "I know." The Medic sat next to him as he whispered, "I hate this! Nothing working, I'm covered in mud, all of this waiting, and I'm starving!"

Medic nodded and listened. "You and I both."

"Waiting because of rain. This is nothing compared to Siberian snow."

"And yet your back got broken twice." The Heavy sighed again in frustration. "This rain won't last. Blue is likely getting impatient as well. They'll make a mistake, and we'll be ready."

The Heavy grinned, "And then we'll flush them out like rats."

"Right."

As they watched the rain, the Heavy reached over and caressed the Medic's thigh. "Any plans tonight?"

The Medic acted like he didn't notice. "Patching up the survivors then a long, hot shower."

"Can I join you?" His deep, purring voice was to Medic's ears like to silk to the touch.

He smiled back. "That's why I'm seeing you last." His red gloved hand covered the massive Heavy's, and their fingers entwined together.

Medic's ears perked; something wasn't right. The Heavy looked about; he sensed it too. "It's too quiet."

It was. Scout was silent. There was no more hammering. Not a single sound was inside the building. Only the faint drizzle of the rain.

The medic helped the heavy quickly to his feet, who immediately turned himself towards the decrepit door frame and in front of medic as he readied his Gatling gun. "Ready, Doctor?"

"Ja."

On that, they marched.

It was more like a defensive creep. The hallways were dark and the rooms stood empty. The team never really stayed close together, but they didn't abandon each other either. "Think they're dead, Doctor?" Heavy whispered.

"There's no evidence of that." He paused behind the Heavy as the large man peered around a hall corner. "They might have returned to base."

"Then we're catching up."

"If they left us here," the Medic grumbled, "you're going to be the only one seeing the doctor tonight."

The two began to slowly make way for the door. Suddenly, their senses were assaulted by the smell of open bowels and spilt blood. But no body. The Medic paused a moment to look about the hallway. The respawn network was silent. The smells were fresh, but the evidence was ancient. What was going on? Then he turned back in time to see a suited arm reach through the darkness and a knife gleam in the lamp light. "Heavy!" He yelled. "Run!" But the knife found its target, and Heavy fell forward with a pained groan. Slinking out of the shadows like a cat who cornered the mouse with the bloody knife ready in hand was the Blue Spy.

An animalistic fury took over the Medic, both terrified and enraged. With grated teeth, he whipped out the Amputator, swinging at the descending knife and deflecting it with a loud 'cling!' The Spy struck at him once more, and Medic dodged aside raising the blade to nick the spy's lowering arm. But the Spy caught the Medic's arm instead, shoving him against the wall. The Medic fiercely twisted about, and the knife made a high pitched 'chink!' as it struck against the Kritzkrieg instead of flesh. He finally twisted an arm free and punched the Spy in the gut, who accidentally loosened his grip as he toppled a moment in recoil.

As if out of thin air, a grating metallic noise scratched loudly across the floor, and the spy toppled over as his feet were bowled right out from underneath. The Medic smiled maniacally as he kicked away the dropped knife then stomped down on the prone Spy's knee with a sickening crunch. With sadistic efficiency, the clean teeth of the Amputator slid across the exposed inner thigh. A geyser of blood shot into the air. When he Spy crawled to escape, then the Medic slammed the Amputator hilt upon the alongside the center of his lower back, where his kidneys were, and the Spy crumbled in shakes. He barely struggled as his own blood pooled about him. "Ausbluten, Dummkopf." the Medic darkly said as he holstered his bloody blade.

When the Medic saw the Heavy, the Spy was immediately forgotten. He had twisted about to see. Now, his strength was giving out. All the large man could do was shakily push himself up to look at the Medic as he ran to him. "Are you. . ." he strained to speak, "all right?" Calmly, the Medic aimed the Kritzkrieg and flipped the switch.

Nothing happened.

What's wrong?! The Medic slapped the side of the gun in frustration. It had been working fine until now. Did something hit it? Did the spy? He reholstered the gun. "Doctor?"

The Medic hushed him, "Don't talk, conserve your strength." Working quickly, he removed the Heavy's bullet belt and searched for the wound. Blood was leaking from his back like thick juice from a squeezing orange, making it almost impossible to clearly tell. The Medic quickly yanked off his tie, folded it up, slid his arm under the Heavy's shirt, and pressed the fabric where the small wound might be. "The Kritzkrieg isn't working. We have to get you to base."

"Doctor, it's too-."

"There's no choice!" he knelt down beside Heavy. He removed a glove and touched the Heavy's cheek, who was already feeling cold and taunt. "I'm not going to let you die, I swear it." On that, he draped the Heavy's arm over his shoulder and, using the fireman's carry, slowly lifted the Heavy from the floor. However, he crashed to his knees. He was not a weak man, not by a long shot, but Heavy was aptly named. With some readjusting, he tried again. This time, his knees were drastically bent, but he could walk. He had to leave the Gatling gun behind, carrying both would be impossible. Slowly, looking like a turtle carrying a bull, he shuffled out of the door.

Just taking the three steps down the front door already had his back begging for mercy. As he dredged through the mud, his knees soon followed. His footing was hardly secure, the mud constantly acted like it will give any moment. Being defenseless and out in the open, he felt increasingly nervous. The surrounding buildings all stood eerily silent. But he ignored it all; saving the Heavy was all that mattered.

A gunshot shattered the silence. Startled, his foot slipped and he fell on all fours into the ground. The Heavy slammed against his back like a wrecking ball. He gritted his teeth holding in his yells. As he paused to recover, he felt the Heavy's head barely shift against him "Doctor." The Heavy barely whispered in his ear. "I love you."

The Medic slowly looked at him as his strain melted away to tenderness but saw the Heavy's eyes close as if falling asleep. This worried him. Inspired, he readjusted his grip and stood again. Two more bullets hit the ground about him. The Medic was beginning to wonder whether the shooter kept missing because of bad aim or if he was laughing.

Suddenly, there was an explosion behind him, three pops made one big boom; Demoman's sticky bombs. "Move the gear up, Lads!" Piling out of the buildings came the Red Team. With rejuvenated energy and uproarious yells, they charged towards the still hiding Blue Team, running right past the Medic and Heavy.

"Let's get 'em!"

"Mooo!"

The Medic felt assured, maybe now the enemy won't notice them.

Suddenly, the load on his shoulders became lighter. He turned to see the Soldier holster Heavy's other arm over his shoulders. The Medic was amazed; the Soldier was passing a chance to fight?!

"You deserve a medal, Doctor!" He boisterously exclaimed. "No man gets left behind in this army!"

He heaved a sigh of relief, "Danke scho-WHOAH!"

On that, the soldier speed marched ahead, keeping time with a 'hup hup hup hup', with the medic struggling to keep up through the twisty turns of the ravines to straight, steel halls.

With a single slide, the familiar steel back door opened to the more Familiar operating room. It was as sterile as a bathroom, but it was stocked better than any hospital. As they walked inside, a flock of white birds flew down in greeting. "He's in your hands, Doctor." The soldier said and leaned the Heavy back upon the Medic. With a reloading of his bazooka, He charged out.

There wasn't a moment to lose! The Medic carefully positioned the Heavy laterally upon the operating table. His back and knees winced in relief, but the Medic ignored them as he tossed off his crusted coat and Kritzkrieg pack. Archimedes, the flock Patriarch, roosted upon the Medic's shoulder, watching him examine the Kritzkrieg's power supply. Upon close inspection, he had found the distributor cords connecting the fuel source to the gun had been severed. Did he have a replacement cord? He wasn't sure. The Medic looked over at Archimedes. He had to make a decision; should he repair the Kritzkrieg and use it to heal the patient? Or use the old fashioned way?

Either way, Heavy had to be stabilized first. While weighing the odds, he slid off the Heavy's bullet vest and red shirt, shooing away Archimedes in the process. He quickly stuck on the heart monitors upon his now pale as paper skin. To his relief, there was still a faint heartbeat, but it was steadily growing weaker. Archimedes roosted on the monitor, watching is master closely.

He ran to the back table. With experienced efficiency, he spread out the surgical mats, double gloved, opened the sterilized tools, and sorted what he'll need upon the Mayo Table. Once ready, he returned to the Heavy, sliding the Mayo table behind him. Flipping the saline wash in his hand, he went to work.

The bleeding had to stop. With a thorough dousing of saline, he washed away the dried blood from the wound. With a Bovie pen in one hand, he quickly cauterized the open veins, while carefully holding away flesh with small retractors. He grew increasingly concerned the more he saw the damage afflicted upon Heavy's spine.

Suddenly, the heart monitor's beeping changed to a frozen alert. The Heavy's heart had stopped. Medic tossed the pen upon the Mayo Table and raced for the defibrillators. "Don't you dare die on me, Heavy!" He yelled as he primed the pads, his brow drenched in sweat. He applied the pads to shock Heavy. Silence. When the charge was ready, again. More silence. Once more. Only silence. He raised the pads to try again, but knew it wouldn't change a thing. Now the only thing that could save him was the Respawn, which still stood silent. As he recalled, the saving window was 30 seconds. So he stood frozen, waiting, hoping to see Heavy's eyes open like from a good night's sleep. Eventually, he started counting aloud, "zwanzig, einundzwanzig, zweiundzwanzig-." desperate to break the silence that was pressuring his senses. When he counted past thirty, the Medic's heart sank. Heavy had died. He had lost him.

Catching his heaving breath, the Medic slowly turned off the monitors. He calmly replaced all of the equipment to their chargers and soiled tools to contamination. As he removed the gloves, he found his hands trembling.

The Medic held his breath; he had to keep his composure. He's been a doctor for too long to let one mercenary's death rattle him. Focus was important. Others will be here soon; he'll need to prepare. After that, there's going to be documents to fill and a report to file for the Mann Company. As he went for the laundry cabinets, he walked by the operating table. But with one look at the Heavy's body, his breath escaped in a strained squeak. Quickly darting away, he calmly open the storage cabinets for the body drapes. It's been a while since he had to prepare a body and file a death report; he had trouble remembering where things were.

He began to cover the sideways form with the open drape. He'll figure out where everything was once. . . The Medic froze as he gazed at Heavy's face. The younger man seemed so serene. There was no fear. No Anger. Was he ready for death? Or did he trust the Medic even past his last breath? The medic dropped the black drape, his hands were shaking too much to grip. The Heavy's last words were telling him that he loved him. He did trust him. The Medic eyes burned as tears formed. And he repaid that trust by losing him.

The silence was broken by familiar gun shots being fired outside followed by the cheering. Teary eyes stared glassily as he listened to the joyous crowd coming closer. He heard the familiar voices, counting each different one. Everyone made it, and the Mission was a success. So the only one lost was Heavy. And himself.

The Medic wanted nothing to do with it. He shut the door locks and switched the lights down low. No one has to know where he is, and that's what he needed most right now.

Wheeling a chair to the Heavy's side, the Medic collapsed bedside as he dropped his glasses on the table. Grasping Heavy's large, cold, and limp hand in both of his, he held it close to his wet cheek, longing for the touch that will never come again. "Es tut mir Lied, mein Heavy." His voice strained against the oncoming sobs. "Ich konnte dich nichte retten!" Still clutching his hand, his face buried upon Heavy's silent side, wailing mournfully.

Archimedes landed upon the Heavy's arm. He curiously peered at the him, and repeatedly pecked at his elbow. To his surprise, he didn't move. He turned to his master as if in question, then back at the Heavy again. The bird hopped to his weeping master's side, closing it's eyes as he softly cooed.

The End


End file.
